Empty Handed
by Ginger Glinda the Tangerine
Summary: Songfic. Mark leaves the loft.


_A/N: This fic is based on the song _Empty Handed_ by Michelle Branch. I had to change the order of the lyrics a little to get the right line at the end, but it still makes sense... xP if any of you don't know the song, I would reccommend it. And, actually the whole _Hotel Paper _album. But advertising aside..._

_Disclaimer: I only own the suitcase._

...

_Here I am, take me  
__It's easier to give in  
__Some people mistake me  
__They only hear what they wanna hear…_

Mark put down his camera.

This was something that hadn't happened for some time and therefore was, he thought, of some note. The world looked different without the comforting presence pressed to his face or hanging around his neck. It was bizarre to him that other people were able to process and record and remember so much information that he had to capture permanently to hold on to.

He knew there had been a time, once, when he hadn't needed every memory to be preserved in celluloid, even if it was only a patch of grass fighting to survive in a crack in the sidewalk. But he had come to rely on the camera. He let it feel for him, or let it keep the feelings for later when he was alone and he could cry without anyone seeing.

_I just can't keep pretending  
__I'm packing my bags cause I don't wanna be  
__The only one who's drowning in their misery_

There was a packed suitcase sitting on the bed next to Mark. He looked at it, nervous, and ran a hand over the cracked leather straps that held it closed. His mother had used to call him a squirrel, he remembered, because of his habit of keeping useless junk and refusing to give it up. The contents of the suitcase, true to form, were part clothing and essentials, part spare film, and mainly unsorted paraphernalia that held some vaguely-remembered sentimental value.

_I'll take that chance cause I just wanna breathe  
__And I won't look back and wonder how it's supposed to be_

He had to leave, Mark knew. He couldn't stay in the loft, not with all the memories and pain and unfelt feelings that waited to leap out at him from every corner. The couch where he and Maureen had spent countless evenings, where Roger had sat and sulked and strummed, the bathroom where April had died, and where Mark had been afraid Roger would die too, Roger's room, now empty of everything, the table where Angel had danced and Mimi had returned from the dead…

Mark sighed and picked up the suitcase, dragging it half-heartedly towards the living room. There was no reason for him to stay here, but it was almost impossible to say goodbye. There were so many things Mark had yet to come to terms with, the most important of these being the simple miracle of the happiness he and his friends had achieved here, despite facing death and rent and starvation nearly every day. Leaving the loft, even though everyone who had ever lived there had left him, still felt like a betrayal.

The suitcase wasn't heavy, exactly. It was an awkward weight that Mark wasn't looking forward to carrying, but putting it on his bike and letting that do the work would have felt like cheating. He picked the suitcase up, tested the weight and resolved to deal with it.

His camera was still sitting on the bed. Mark could just see it through the bedroom door, like a lover he'd fought with and hadn't quite left yet. He didn't know whether he'd be needing it or not. The small part of Roger that seemed immovably lodged in one corner of Mark's brain was rejoicing that the filmmaker was actually considering living a normal life for once, but the rest of Mark was already crying out to consider framing and depth and angle, to watch the world go by without actively taking part, without needing to.

_How it's supposed to be  
__Tell me how it's supposed to be_

Sighing, Mark dropped his suitcase and walked back into the bedroom to pick up the camera, slipping the strap over his head. The weight nestled into his chest, fitting perfectly into its old comfortable position. Lifting the suitcase was even more awkward now, as Mark had to support the camera with one hand. He laughed, standing alone in an empty loft. Was this really what his life came down to? Did he really place more importance on his camera than on all his worldly belongings?

…

Mark got off the bus and stood at the end of a street so familiar it was hard to believe he had ever been away. He slotted into his old childhood rhythm of wandering down the sidewalk, stepping over all the cracks because of some ancient and frightening juvenile superstition.

The door looked the same, the garden looked the same, and the woman who opened the door when Mark knocked was only changed because of the unrepressed joy that dawned on her face when she saw him.

_And it's only me, empty-handed  
__With a childish grin and a camera_

Mark grinned sheepishly. "Hey, Mom. Mind if I come in?"


End file.
